Page 6 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

Nate was already sitting when I walked into the conference room that somehow smelled like eucalyptus and judgment.

He gave me a small, neutral smile. “Hey.”

I sank into the chair across from him like I was taking a seat in court.

“So,” I said. “How fast did the complaint land?”

“About forty-five minutes after you left the restaurant,” he said. “Which, to be fair, is faster than some people text back.”

“Charming.”

He studied me for a moment. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I mean... I didn’t stab him.”

“Not in the criminal sense, no.”

I stared at him.

Nate set down his tablet and leaned forward slightly. “Look, I read the incident report. I also read the ma?tre d’s notes, which were...impressively neutral for someone who watched a fork skirmish unfold in real time.”

“The ma?tre d’ looked like he regretted his entire hospitality career.”

“He described you as ‘intense but articulate,’ which is polite-speak for ‘she has a point, but I’m scared of her.’”

“Great. Five stars for verbal clarity, one star for hand-to-hand combat. ”

Nate exhaled through his nose—not a laugh, but not disapproval either. He went quiet for a beat then said gently, “You were right.”

I blinked. “What?”

“About Ben. You saw something. You knew. And you tried to call it out.”

“Yeah. And now he’s got a matching set of emotional damage and legal threats.”

“I’m not saying you handled it perfectly.”

“Gee, thanks. So you think I imagined him taking the fork?”

“No,” Nate said gently. “I think you’ve been trained to expect that people won’t believe you. You’re often focusing on the negative.”

“That’s...wildly validating and deeply unhelpful.”

“Welcome to coaching.” Nate leaned back. “And like most coaching, it starts with doing the opposite of what you’re used to. Which is why your next assignment isn’t about what to avoid. It’s about what to notice. One green flag. That’s it. One thing that feels honest. Safe. Real.”

“And what if there aren’t any?”

“Then at least you looked,” he said. “You gave someone a chance to show up.”

I stared at the table, jaw tight. “What if I’m not built for that?”

Nate’s voice was quiet. “Then we figure it out. But you don’t get to lead with fire and say it’s your only setting.”

I looked at him. Not smiling. Not soft. But steady. The kind of steady that probably did yoga before work and journaled with color-coded pens. God, he was earnest— like a walking leadership retreat. And somehow, that just made it harder to argue with him.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll go on another date. I’ll hunt for green flags. Like some deranged Girl Scout.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, tapping something on his tablet. “Also: no more physical altercations over flatware.”

“Only metaphorical ones?”

“We’ll negotiate.”

***

The wine bar Bradley picked for our first date was tucked just far enough off the main street to make me wonder if I was being lured into a tasteful abduction.

It was the kind of place that didn’t have a sign—just frosted windows, ambient jazz, and a host stand that appeared only when you made eye contact with the right wall.

Cozy. Private. A little too private. Classic serial killer move, really.

If the wine list didn’t get me, the soundproof walls probably would.

But sure—maybe he just had great taste in hidden gems.

I adjusted my blazer and reminded myself: green flags. I was here for green flags.

And the man I was meeting?

Bradley.

Yes, that Bradley. The one with the quiet smile and the book in his hand—the only dating app profile I didn’t instinctively reject during the "say yes to one new thing" assignment. And now, here he was.

Tall. Dark-haired. That pale, broody handsomeness that made you wonder if he was immortal or just committed to an elite skincare routine. The navy sweater wasn’t just stylish—it was mood-setting. He looked like the love interest in a Gothic novel who might be a vampire but has really good reasons .

“Diana?” he said, smiling as he approached.

His voice was low, smooth, and steady—the kind that could talk you down from a ledge or quietly convince you to step off it. Like late-night radio. Or someone reading your story when they already knew how it ended.

Green flag number one: his voice. I liked it.

I nodded. “Hi. Bradley, right?”

He smiled and offered a hand. “Brad’s fine.”

Polite. Crisp. No weird lingering hand contact. No awkward side-hug. Just...normal.

We sat. He asked if I was okay with the booth, checked that I had a view of the room, and didn’t make it weird by explaining why he asked. Just smooth, thoughtful, unobtrusive.

In true-crime terms, that level of situational awareness meant he was either deeply empathetic...or a textbook sociopath managing impressions like a pro.

I paused.

No.

No spiraling.

I was here to look for green flags .

Not mentally cross-reference everything with the FBI’s behavioral checklist.

One healthy assumption at a time.

And just like that, we were off to a dangerously promising start.

Brad asked about my work. Actually listened. Didn’t interrupt once. No cliches, no “work hard play harder,” no unprompted monologue about crypto .

Green flag number two.

The conversation was weirdly smooth. Pleasant. Polished. I caught myself leaning in more than once, surprised by how easy it was.

“Any weird hobbies I should know about?” I asked, half-joking, fully prepared for something like rock climbing or chess boxing.

He smiled. “True crime.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

He nodded. “Big fan of RedHanded . Obsessed with the production quality on Criminal . I’ve read all of Ann Rule’s stuff, plus most of the academic studies on serial offender typology.”

Green flag number three, I almost shouted to myself.

We had a shared interest! Connection. Finally.

And then he added, “You ever read about Israel Keyes? Now that was a fascinating mind. Total anomaly. No victim profile. Cross-country. He buried kill kits. Years in advance.”

He said it with the tone most people reserved for historical figures or Olympic athletes. Like he was low-key impressed.

I took a sip of wine to stall. “So...you’re into logistics?”

He smiled. “I appreciate structure.”

Another long pause. The jazz solo behind us was getting a little too intense.

Green flag number... Honestly, I’d lost count. He still hadn’t checked his phone. No Instagram questions. No performative modesty. No mansplaining. He was attentive. Articulate. Present.

Perfect.

Too perfect .

Like he’d been algorithmically assembled from a checklist titled Ideal Match with Just a Dash of Brooding Mystery.

His hair curled just slightly at the collar—romantic in a way that felt like it had been calculated to inspire fan art. He had the kind of hands you only ever saw on book covers: large, veined, like he could cradle a wineglass or someone’s fragile emotional baggage.

He even smelled good. Not just cologne. Something deeper.

Like bergamot and expensive soap, the kind that leaves no residue and neutralizes scent.

On Criminal Elements , they mentioned high-end soap being a common choice for certain offenders—less traceable than bleach, less suspicious than industrial cleaners.

Stop. I forced myself to chill. I wasn’t here to dissect every sensory input like a forensics lab tech. I was here to notice what worked. To follow Nate’s stupid green flag exercise.

And truthfully?

Tonight, they were everywhere. Green flags waving like I was about to enter a parade.

I texted Nate the briefest summary:

Possibly too many green flags. Will debrief once I confirm he’s not a charming serial killer in disguise.

He “liked” it. No other response.

Cool. Whatever.

It was late. He was probably out. Probably on a date.

With someone who didn’t come with footnotes.